Return of Anguish
by Noir1
Summary: Now complete... Enjoy the final chapter.
1. At Dusk

Author's Note: After a delay of two days, I've finally formed the idea for my next story arc. As it occurs directly after Lonely Lover's Lament (exactly one second afterwards), it's essential that you read that arc first. I truly appreciate the incredible encouragement from all of those that reviewed and read Lonely Lover's Lament, and, in particular, the slave- driving antics of Cherry.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, I grasped the silenced pistol wedged behind my seat, slowly drawing it upwards and taking aim at the unassuming sentry's head. I didn't relish this, but I had no choice in the matter; this was essential for the operation to succeed. Seeing the green, fluorescent digits on the watch ticking down, '29, 28, 27,' I realized that I had to act immediately. Closing my eyes briefly, I applied a gentle, but gradually increasing, pressure to the trigger, eventually feeling an abrupt push back against my hand, and hearing a gentle 'puff' from the suppressor. Shortly thereafter, a muffled metallic clatter sounded as the casing rolled onto the soft, padded floor of the luxurious cabin, and then a dull thud as the sentry, little more than a boy, fell to the ground. Hearing his sub-machinegun tumble out of his grasp with a soft thump, I chanced a look at him, wincing and feeling a slight pang of horror as I saw a gentle trickle of blood running out of the gaping wound in his skull, and a large mass of red coating the wall, the slow, lethargic movements of the fluids almost a parody of its owner's last moments of life.  
  
Stepping away from the large, oak-paneled window of the passenger cabin, I felt a pulling at my heart as I saw the slight, unassuming smile on the guard's face, forever plastered there. However, I quickly steeled myself, telling myself that this was Umbrella's man... That this person was the enemy, that he was affiliated with those that took Albert away from me; that fortified my nerves, and I looked at my watch, the numbers nearing the deadline. '5, 4, 3, 2...'  
  
I glanced up as the watch beeped, and quickly shielded my eyes as a large, high-density glass window pane imploded, showering the room with glass, several shards brushing against my clothing, the loud rumbling of the train's engine and a soft 'whump' of a helicopter's rotors now audible. Only moments after, four dark figures, their faces covered with gasmasks, tumbled in, MP5 sub-machineguns grasped in their hands.  
  
"You," the muffled voice of one of the men growled, "who are you?"  
  
"My name is Rebecca Chambers," I calmly replied in a slightly raised voice over the cacophonous sound of the train's engine; my eyes completely centered on the mirrored goggles of the gasmask that the speaker wore.  
  
Lowering his sub-machinegun, the man merely nodded, pressing a single button on a small computer mounted on his wrist. Shortly afterwards, the rest of the windows burst inwards, twelve other men leaping into the room and landing with cat-like agility and grace, rising to their feet and looking toward the speaker, who was obviously their leader.  
  
The sound of the helicopter quickly subsided, leaving only the low, rumbling grumbling of the train's engine; the leader spoke again. "What's the sit-rep?" He demanded his voice unchanging from the muffled growl of before.  
  
Somewhat annoyed, but understanding of his reasons for his briskness, I replied. "There's an entire squad of Umbrella security personnel on the train... However, there's also a large amount of T-virus material, and fifteen B.O.W. stasis tubes. There are two T-104s, seven Ma-121s, and six Ma-103s contained within them. There are also some body bags in the cold- storage freezer. This train is en route to the Toronto transit hub."  
  
"Is there any chance of bio-contamination when we leave this cabin?"  
  
"No, this entire train is clear of any contaminants. The car with the bio- hazardous material is the last; it's the heavily armored section."  
  
"Understood. Troops, this area's clear." The leader spoke, and he promptly peeled the gasmask from his face, revealing darkly handsome, but very brooding, Mediterranean features.  
  
The other soldiers followed suit and removed their gasmasks, revealing the varied nationalities and genders of the other fifteen. There were four women among them, all bearing harsh, determined expressions; I felt no camaraderie toward them, however, just as I didn't toward the rest of the HCF commandos.  
  
Their uniforms were uniformly black, communications headsets loosely fitting around their ears, and completely anonymous, sans a small, gray 'HCF' logo on the right breastplate. These uniforms were no different from Umbrella's 'Cleaner' division, I realized, but it was of little consequence to me. As much as I hated it, these people were the key to my salvation; they were who would free me from this nightmare of pain and loneliness.  
  
"When are we exfiltrating?" I abruptly asked, my voice now softer.  
  
"Not now, we have other things to do. You," the leader spoke, drawing an expression of disbelief from me, "will follow Rodriguez, Jones, Yan, and I."  
  
"What?!" I demanded.  
  
"You can handle a weapon well enough. We're taking over this train."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?! I was told that you were supposed to extract me!"  
  
"Plans have changed, Chambers." He icily replied, his voice almost a dismissive grunt, before turning away and addressing the other commandos. "You twelve will secure the rest of the train. We're taking over the sealed containment car. Move out!" He shouted, prompting twelve of the troops to file out of the room, brushing past me without even a glance.  
  
Only five of us remained in the cabin; an Asian woman, who was presumably Yan; a relatively unremarkable Caucasian man, who was probably Jones; and a Hispanic woman, Rodriguez, her armband designating her as a medical officer; along with the commander.  
  
"Chambers," the commander again spoke in a nearly grunting manner, "do you know the access codes to the sealed biohazard storage train car?"  
  
"Yes," I replied, my voice agitated, "I know all of the access codes to the train's various sectors, except for the security stations."  
  
"Good. Take that guard's SMG, and guide us from the back."  
  
I moved forward tentatively, crouching near the guard's corpse, and pulling his weapon away from his cold, lifeless hands before picking it up, chambering a bullet. I then stood, glancing back at the commandos, before moving into the main corridor of the passenger car, the distant, muffled sounds of suppressed gunfire already audible in the cavernous depths of the transport.  
  
"We have to move southeast from here, toward the dining car... I don't know what'll happen, though; we should wait until your forces clear it, I think." I spoke, not particularly anxious to confront a mass of Umbrella troops.  
  
"There's no time, Chambers. Just keep moving." The leader snapped, gesturing toward the entrance to the dining car with his sub-machinegun.  
  
As they charged ahead of me, I began to move slowly forward, remaining far back of them. My weapon clutched in my grasp, I looked slowly, curiously about the corridor, occasionally finding sprays of blood soaking windows, or the entrances to each suite in the passenger train riddled with bullets. Crouching, the group of commandos stalked slowly, silently, and gracefully toward the dining car's entrance, the open portal looming ominously, potentially the gates to any number of hells. Tentatively, but purposefully, peering around the thick, heavy oak paneling surrounding the open doorway, the actual door apparently blown off of its hinges, the commander raised his weapon, making several gestures that amounted to him pumping his clenched fist in the air, and then pointing toward the doorway.  
  
Sprinting into the dining car, their weapons raised and pointing wildly in every direction in the classical 'sweep' maneuver, the commandos searched the room, beneath chairs, behind the bar, and then arrived at the entrance to the kitchen, the leader waving toward me to, 'move ahead.' Tentatively obeying, I slowly walked in, hoping that there were no hidden dangers lurking, not particularly confident in the commandos.  
  
"Chambers," the leader began when I finally reached him, standing beside he and the medic, "what's beyond this car?"  
  
"There's the guard post, and then the sealed biohazard storage car."  
  
"We're almost there..." He trailed off, sounding extremely relieved.  
  
However, as he kicked through the swinging doors to the kitchen, he abruptly halted, a gasp and a gurgling sound of disbelief issuing from him; he then walked back suddenly, knocking the medic off-balance, his face decidedly pale.  
  
"What's wrong?" She demanded, truly concerned; apparently, this leader wasn't very easily distressed.  
  
"Something's... Something's... Damn it, something is... Eating... Robertson..." He trailed-off, his voice cracking.  
  
Looking into the kitchen, much to the surprise of the commandos, I gasped, not truly in terror, but in surprise. The incident in the Spencer Mansion had nearly desensitized me to the gruesome carnage that these B.O.W.s could wreak, but I never expected a repetition of this horrible and needless destruction; these terrors that man had created from man himself.  
  
A man in a lab coat, its fabric torn and dripping with water, blood, and gore, was crouched over one of the commandos, the soldier's black uniform torn and shredded, blood soaking the chest. The man in the lab coat wasn't a man, but one of those mindless T-specimens... Bits of bleeding, cracked skin began to peel from his already heavily-decayed face, but he paid it no heed; he merely continued to tear the flesh from the still-struggling, but nearly-dead, soldier, grotesque sounds of chewing and shredding of skin and muscle resounding throughout the otherwise pristine kitchen. Backing out of the kitchen, I inadvertently allowed the door to slam, a gasp issuing from all those present, and a palpable tension rising for a few moments, before a slow shuffling sounded from the kitchen, accompanied by an awkward thumping, much like a limping man.  
  
At that very moment, I know that the worst-case scenario had come true; Umbrella had released all of the specimens in the train, and we were trapped. Just as I began to speak, a low, keening moan emanated from the kitchen... I knew that everything had started, all over again.  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Thus begins the next 'arc' of the series, which began with Lonely Lover's Lament... This is really my first experience with writing anything non-romantic, so if it was mediocre, please, inform me, and I'll ensure that I'll rewrite it... I'm not particularly confident in it, and whether or not it will satisfy those that have been following the series thus far, but I sincerely hope it does. Again, an eternally appreciative address of thanks to all of those that have read this, and an even more massive, 'THANK YOU!,' to all of those magnificently kind reviewers. As usual, although on an unusual subject (I mean that in a positive context, of course), a monstrously (no pun intended) huge, 'Thank you!,' to my devoted slave driver, Cherry. 


	2. Despair

Author's Notes: I apologize for the rather substantial delay between these chapters... However, I've had the incredible misfortune of having SIX separate high-level exams to take, and I was unwilling to let my grades suffer. However, I am truly, incredibly grateful to all of the magnificent reviewers, and all of the positive feedback that I have received for Lonely Lover's Lament, as well as this current arc... And, as usual, a massive, 'thank you!,' to my loyal slave driver, Cherry.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
As the moan reverberated through the kitchen, the acoustics enhancing the normally anemic groan of the T-virus specimen into an agonized, horrifying moan of hunger and pain, which had an obvious and immediate affect on the HCF commandos. The other three developing a pallor equal to, or even greater than, their leader, they remained frozen; seemingly unwilling to accept the reality that was now shuffling toward them.  
  
Suddenly, the T-specimen burst through the doors, rearing its decaying face, the mouth, its rotting teeth covered in blood and scraps of flesh, surrounded by blood, the crimson stains giving the sickly ironic appearance of healthy, red lips; the eyes were blank, lifeless, unthinking glass orbs, the irises now gray, and with only the most limited, most feral intellect; its lab coat was stained completely with blood and gore, partially its own, partially that of its latest victim, and it was saturated with water, indicating that it was one of the specimens in the cold-storage freezer. Its body was already heavily degraded, masses of flesh sagging loosely, a sickly, greenish pallor having already formed. It was the appearance of a long-dead human... Once a man, now nothing more than an organic machine, reanimated by the machinations of its own colleagues, its fellow men; now reduced to a mindless animal, driven by only the most base impulse. It lumbered toward us, intent on fulfilling one carnal need: the need to feed.  
  
Stumbling toward our tightly clustered group, the Zombie moaned pitifully, the horrible, disgusting noise apparently breaking the entrancement of the HCF commandos. The Hispanic woman, Rodriguez, opened fire, the repeated whispering, understated puffs of the silenced sub-machinegun a stark contrast to the climactic, horrible mist of red that burst forth from the T- specimen. The stomach burst open, thick, red fluids spilling as it continued forward, the grotesque torrent of crimson flowing from its wound seeming to invigorate it.  
  
"Sir, what the hell is this?!" Shouted Rodriguez, an anticlimactic clicking signaling that her magazine was empty.  
  
Backing up, the other three merely stared on in horror as the zombie surged forward, defying its own body's limits, and grasped Rodriguez, her eyes widening in terror as it brought its mouth down onto her throat. Suddenly, there was a sickening, repulsive tearing sound as the monster sank its teeth into her neck, and then pulled its head back, torrents of blood streaming down her collar as the zombie pulled away, severed tendons and arteries from her neck in its mouth. Shrieking in agony, she managed to push the zombie away, fumbling for her pistol and firing wildly, striking the T-specimen with several of the shots, the rest of the magazine lodging itself in the oak paneling of the room. The zombie latched onto her again, and she was only able to scream in horror and pain as it bit into her throat, finally tearing out her jugular vein, a flood of red bursting forth and covering the monster and her own body. Tumbling to the ground, the monstrosity still attached to her neck, she lay in a pool of her own blood, a look of terror forever cemented in place on her face.  
  
"R-Rodriguez!" The commander shouted, the horrific sight somehow making something snap inside of his brain, as he drew his combat knife, dropping the sub-machinegun, and charged forward, embedding the blade into the skull of the zombie. A spray of fluids bursting forth as he withdrew the knife, and then pressed it again into the brainpan of the horrible monster, he repeatedly stabbed it, not stopping until it had been decapitated, the skull crushed and blood leaking from its now-broken brain.  
  
Dropping to the ground, panting with exertion, he let the blood-soaked blade slip from his grasp, striking the lightly carpeted floor with a dull metallic thud.  
  
"What do we do now, Sir?" The quiet, disturbed voice of the other woman, Yan, rose over the unbearable silence.  
  
"I... I don't know..." The commander trailed-off; "we have to get out of this hellhole; never mind the mission..."  
  
"What about Rodriguez?" The man, Jones, abruptly interrupted the commander.  
  
"Don't disturb her... Let her be..." The commander finished darkly.  
  
"No," I began, the firmness of my voice eliciting an obviously horrified reaction from the others; they must've assumed that I was being callous; I knew that I was being reasonable. "We have to decapitate her..." I halted abruptly at the furious glares that t he rest of the team shot me.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with you?! Isn't it enough that she died because of your organization?!" Yan shouted, grasping me by the shirt and shaking me.  
  
"She'll become one of them..." I started, prompting Yan to release me, "she'll become one of them unless you do it..." I ended vaguely.  
  
"What do you mean? What are those monsters?" Jones demanded.  
  
"They're B.O.W.s... They're failures, really, but Umbrella is still using them as specimens. They're early T-virus results; reanimated corpses, truly. They have no mind, once infected... All of their intelligence recedes, and disappears entirely in the face of the virus. They're just shells, searching for food. If you're bitten, and the anti-virus isn't administered within four hours, you'll become one of them... Even if you're already dead. The only way to stop it otherwise is to decapitate the body or destroy the brain." I finished, my voice sympathetic, but firm.  
  
For a moment, silence reigned, only broken by the sharp, determined voice of the commander. "All right."  
  
"What? Sir, are you really buying into that?" Jones demanded, sounding betrayed.  
  
"I believe her... We've all heard of those claims about the Raccoon Forest; she's one of those survivors."  
  
"That's insane! Even if there are B.O.W.s on this train, that can't be possible! Nothing can reanimate dead tissue after that kind of trauma... That kind of trauma..." Yan trailed-off, staring at the mangled, shattered corpse of the zombie, the knife wounds seeming to be the least of its injuries.  
  
Bending down before Rodriguez's corpse, the commander picked up his knife, pressing it laterally over her throat, and then closing his eyes; he pressed it down with intense force, the incredibly sharp blade cutting through her the bone and sinew of her neck, decapitating her. Removing his combat vest, he placed it over her broken body, the ceremony seeming out of place in such an insane situation, but also right.  
  
"Let's go..." He softly spoke, his voice haunted. "We have to move to the Biohazard storage car... Maybe we can find something with which to destroy these."  
  
"Chambers," Yan started, her voice disturbed, but apologetic, "I'm sorry..."  
  
"It's all right," I replied softly.  
  
Retrieving his sub-machinegun from the floor, now clad only in a light, black jacket, the commander stalked determinedly toward the exit to the dining car. The others following obediently behind him, their stride rapid, and their faces grimly set on their mission, they held their sub- machineguns tightly in their hands. I followed closely behind them this time, realizing that the greatest threat would not come from the Umbrella soldiers, but from the now-released B.O.W.s.  
  
After a matter of seconds, which dragged on like minutes, we arrived at the doorway; the high-density metal door was forced aside, deep claw marks embedded in the surface. The others pretended not to notice, but I saw that each of their gazes lingered on the door; I was transfixed on the deep gouges. I didn't wish to confront the horrific advancements of science that Umbrella had pioneered, but I realized that it was inevitable; I realized that Umbrella had no intention of allowing any of us to leave this train alive.  
  
Passing tentatively through the portal into the dark, dimly lit room, my first reaction was absolute relief, almost disappointment; there was absolutely nothing in this final guardroom, except for a desk, and a rack of weapons. However, as we moved deeper into the sterile, metallic room, the large biohazard symbol on the partially shattered window looking into the Biohazard storage area's entrance indicated that we had arrived at our objective. But, as we arrived at the center of the rather large guardroom, our confidence inflated by the false sense of peace because of the lack of any real danger, we didn't notice a soft, gentle hissing, and a sound akin to the rapid beating of large wings.  
  
Suddenly, an MA-103, classified under Umbrella's documents as the 'Chimera,' burst forth from an antechamber, charging toward us, the mass of gunfire from the commandos' sub-machineguns not even fazing it. Looking into its beastly, animalistic compound eyes, and its horrible, hairy exoskeleton, I knew that it was the manifestation of death; the bringer of destruction with its massive, scythe-like arms; I ran...  
  
While the MA-103 was distracted, I sprinted past it into the biohazard storage area, sealing the heavy steel door behind me and then barricading myself in an anteroom. The squeals of agony from the MA-103 and the soft, incessant and erratic gasping of the sub-machineguns finally halting, I realized that the skirmish had ended. However, as I looked up, my eyes caught something far more horrifying. Before me was the containment tube of one of the T-104s, the flashing LED numbers on the timer mechanism on an adjoining panel gradually decreasing in value. "15, 14, 13, 12..."  
  
  
  
Author's Note: I truly apologize if the initial scene with the zombie was excessively graphic, as this is the first time that I have ever truly strayed from the romantic format and wrote a dramatic horror scene, so I'm not certain what the acceptable limits are... Also, I'm not particularly confident in this piece, so, if it seems obtuse, mundane, or otherwise unfavorable, please, inform me, and I'll revise it immediately. Again, a monumentally great and eternally expression of thanks to all of the magnificent reviewers and readers, and, in particular, my incredible slave driver, Cherry, who has been an unending source of encouragement. 


	3. Requiescat in Pace

Author's Preface: Yeah, it's been awhile, hasn't it? While I'm sure that even my most loyal supporter, and sometimes (deservedly so, too, I might add) artistic detractor, Cherry, has forgotten about this formerly- discarded piece of pseudo-writing, I've decided to conclude it with a half- assed chapter that conveys my sense of despair and general self-loathing. Enjoy, everyone!  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I make no claim of ownership of it. If by their request, or by the request of a certified representative, I shall promptly remove this work from Fanfiction.net, and any other sites that archive it.  
  
Finale:  
  
The blood thunderously resounding in my ears was eerily contrasted by the intermittent beep of the glimmering panel that adjoined the massive, looming stasis tube. Desperately struggling to catch my breath, bent double and straining to ignore the horrific shrieking resonating outside, I began to slowly look upwards at what was suspended inside the bubbling azure liquid. A giant humanoid shape hung limply within, a wide assortment of pulsing tubes connected to its nude, pasty, towering form. Its sexless body was inordinately muscled; the hideously deformed face barely conveyed any sense of its former humanity. I knew that I had been party to its creation, and that abrupt epiphany, piling upon other torturous thoughts, made my frame quiver with frustration and shame.  
  
"Six, five, four, three." A dull, inflectionless voice, a product of the inhuman computer array that had fostered the development of the beast before me, roared into my consciousness. The abomination before me was not only brought into its tormented being, but was about to be activated before my eyes. I suppose that it was my rightful comeuppance to be dispatched by the abhorrent creation, but I didn't feel ready to die yet.  
  
"Not just yet. Not just yet; I still have a responsibility." The words tumbled out of my mouth before I was aware of that I had spoken them. I felt a renewed purpose, if only one that would selfishly give me a dignified death.  
  
"Stasis terminated. Disengaging long-term life-support systems. Preparing to release specimen." The lifeless voice startled me, and I could see the level of sloshing blue fluids slowly descend; gravity took effect on the horrid mutation and it slumped listlessly against the thick, durable glass of its former tomb.  
  
A grisly tearing sound issued even from within the confines of the glimmering, wet cylinder as the great weight of the creature shifted within it, and the tubes, once perfectly grafted onto it, were ripped away. Ichors of darkened gore dribbled down its side, but it obviously didn't notice. One of its gargantuan, disproportionately-huge limbs, which had been formerly concealed behind it, raised; a series of pulsating, flesh- obscured claws protruded from the thick arm. Suddenly, it dashed ahead and through the reinforced glass; the unexpected movement caught me off guard, and I fell back, my head crashing painfully against the steel grating of the floor.  
  
"Goddamn it. I have to get up. Got to get up." I prodded myself, trying to stave off the curtain of black conspiring to swallow up my vision. The creature itself seemed to be trying to orient itself in its newfound freedom, and that brief moment of confusion was the opportunity I needed.  
  
Unsteadily standing, I stumbled toward the locking panel on the thick steel door, desperately hoping that the Tyrant wouldn't manage to get its bearings before I could reach the exit. I rapidly punched in the code that had been drummed so often into my whirling mind, and then, reaching the blood-spattered hallway beyond, slammed my fist against the lock; the dense metal gates slammed shut, at least temporarily containing the monstrosity.  
  
Taking the brief reprieve from the threat of imminent death, I felt the back of my skull; it was slick and grimy, dribbling a thick fluid. When I brought my hand back, I saw that my entire hand was covered in a veneer of dark crimson; I was bleeding badly. I knew that a concussion was certain, but it really didn't matter to me. Looking up, a searing pang of guilt and self-hatred lanced through my beaten and bruised mind as I glimpsed the calamity wreaked by my own cowardice. The entire team rested limply, torn asunder, the corpses of Umbrella's nefarious bio-weapons still twitching and bleeding beside them.  
  
The team commander's eviscerated corpse lay beneath the shallowly-panting form of a 'Chimera,' his knife shoved unceremoniously, probably in his last moments of life, into its exposed brain; it wept blackened fluids, the ooze slowly spreading out and thickening around it. I couldn't bear to watch anymore of it, so I simply ran ahead, the route to the command car etched indelibly into my hazy mind.  
  
"Self-destruct code. Five-five-two-six." I repeated absently to myself in- between hoarse pants, my lungs ablaze with an anguished heat. I kept sprinting, the screeching of tearing metal indicative of just how close the Tyrant behind me was to achieving its goal of liberation. It would have its freedom. I would have my final escape.  
  
At long last, after what seemed to be hours of numbing running through the blood-stained corridors of the metal-lined train, I reached the front. The door had been wrenched open, the conductor's supine body engulfed by a steadily-spreading pool of blood. I took in the most insignificant detail, my mind whirring at a speed that I'd never felt before; his skull was crushed, bits of bone and tissue scattered across the wall behind him; one brass casing rested beside him.  
  
Finally reaching the panel, I tapped in the oft-repeated numbers in a single, staccato burst. With a relieved sigh, I pushed the key marked, 'confirm,' and saw a series of numbers flash across the display. An inflectionless voice thundered around the empty, dead train, "fifteen minutes until detonation. Locking all doors. Emergency mode engaged."  
  
It was all over. It was over for everyone. All of my misguided hopes and dreams had come to a well-deserved, ironic finale. I had been crushed by what I had always strived to create in search of a better world. I hadn't made a better world; I had made one where megalomaniacs were given an army of drones to do their bidding. I had betrayed the life I should have lived. I had betrayed the only person I ever loved. I should have left with him. I'm sorry.  
  
As I key in the last of this narrative, and prepare to hurl this disc from the train, I have one final message: I'm sorry. The person to whom this is addressed will know. Throughout all of these diaries, and this pathetic narrative, all I wanted was to be with you again. Maybe I will someday. Goodbye.  
  
Author's postscript: That was it. Depressing, wasn't it? That's the mood I'm in, if it wasn't already apparent. I'm sure that some people were expecting some expansive, sugary romance, rife with exciting trials and tribulations, which would inevitably be resolved in an ending so saccharine that it would cause cavities on sight. Well, that was my intention when I started it; that was my intention when I had some semblance of optimism remaining. I'm pleased to report that the unabashed cynicism and pessimism that is characteristic of my true nature is back in place after a brief sabbatical in the Land of Oz. Dorothy's realized that Oz is really not a metaphor for how good the world is despite the occasional sinister witch, but is actually a post-traumatic stress-disorder-induced delusion, and she's turned Toto into a psychotic attack dog.  
  
"This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper."- TS Elliot, The Hollow Men.  
  
And a hey-nonny-nonny-nonny. 


End file.
